


Goodbye, Turtles

by NaughtyPants



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crimes & Criminals, Family, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Light-Hearted, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:01:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24542761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaughtyPants/pseuds/NaughtyPants
Summary: In New York City, anyone can make it. And that also applies to four walking, talking, mutant teenagers, that must carve out their own future in a world teeming with cranks and crooks. On the way, encountering for the first time the dangers of the Foot Clan, and finding unlikely friendship. This fic is literally just some fluffy nonsense I wrote ages ago. Cowabunga?
Kudos: 1





	1. Adaptation

**Author's Note:**

> These three chapters of this fanfic have been collecting dust for 6 months, so I thought I might as well put it out there as it is. Minimal proofreading, I apologise in advance. I've lost interest in writing for the TMNT franchise, so as the name might suggest, this is my farewell. My other work will also probably remain unfinished. Sorry. This was more or less practice for writing action sequences.

Miles of criss-crossing tunnels in the dead of night. Gaping cracks in the concrete half-moon walls create a staggered echo of distant splashes. Footsteps. Pacing like a heartbeat and fading out as a figure treads further down the damp stretch of sewer. Cars whirr by and briefly illuminate the underground in a moving circumference of light. He draws closer to a grate above, and so too does he to two men yapping.

Unable to make out any words through his unbroken concentration, he raises his head to look around: the grate provides access to a calming city sky light, and some much needed fresh air over the far too familiar stench of this place. Then again, it also poses some danger. Laying his back against the wall, he is able to make out the two men who he now sees are standing at least three feet away, and don't look as if they'll be moving any time soon. A smile curbs his lips. This is a good spot, he thinks.

Quietly lowering himself onto the shallow stream of water, he crosses his legs and lays hands across padded knees. And so, even when faced with the dripping of droplets and the drawl of delinquents, not to mention the constant roar of automobiles, he feels himself at harmony. Sometimes, there's simply nothing better than doing nothing. And he reminisces on his master's look of unbridled dissatisfaction whenever he and his brothers call it 'nothing', but let's be honest, that's exactly what it is.

"To do nothing is to partake in an action that yields no worth. No value. No consequences. My sons, to meditate is not to do nothing. It is to allow time to reflect on one's self, and one's thoughts."

"But, you say to get off my lazy butt and stop doing nothing when I'm playing video games. That's not nothing, though, is it?"

"Raphael. There is an unimaginable difference in comparing 'nothing' to the emptiness of mindless entertainment."

In response, his rambunctious brother thought for a moment. Then, when not a single logical thought or conclusion sprung to mind, he gave up and scratched his head impatiently.

"Well? What're we sitting here talking for?" "Let's fight,"

Back then, two words like that was all it took to collate the four of them into a child's day out on the playground. They'd all cheer, and wrestle each other with grins--or smirks, in Raph's case--wide on their faces. And through such a rabble, or perhaps with the passage of time, he is not able to recall what exactly his master did or said at that moment. But he could easily imagine him placing his hand over his eyes and saying 'Now, this is doing nothing'.

These days things are different, and not as simple. Because we're teenagers, obviously. So moments like this, where he can have some time alone to think about the past, are a welcome reprieve. Plus, it doesn't hurt to catch a break from his brothers every now and then. It feels like each day he's having crisps munched in his ear, or coming back to bed from an exhausting work out session only to find the sheets dishevelled and covered in comic books, or--

He shrieks, as he feels a cold substance dribble across his head and down his neck and chest. One of the men above clearly say to the other, "What was that!?", and he has no time to think. He sprints like a mad dog away from the box-shaped veil of light cast down from the sewer grate, and out of sight. A scrawny shadow in a dappled blue cap looms over the metal cover, peering inside to a waterlogged staff soaking in the shallow stream, before muttering something and wandering off.

With a sigh of relief, the figure stops to examine himself. Daring not taste the liquid he's been stained with lest it be mud or poison, he touches it between his fingers. It feels a bit sticky, and against his green skin it leaves an unmistakably brownish hue. Soda.

"Gross ..."

So much for catching a break from his brothers. For a moment, he considers returning to reclaim his lost armory, until the realisation of two stationary boots obscuring the skylight downpour sets in. He desperately tries to wipe himself clean as he drags himself back down the tunnel. Sure, home won't be any quieter, but at least there he'll have a slightly reduced chance of getting soft drinks poured over his head.

\---

“It is I, the evil space ninja. You walked right into my trap, Raphaelus. Now, prepare to be destroy-inated,” Mikey said, holding two action figures,  “Ahh, that is where you’re wrong, evil space ninja!--You cannot destroy that which has already kicked your butt."

He bashes them together. Raphael sits behind him looking increasingly annoyed.

“Not so fast, Raphaelus--I have the power ...of Donnie's disgusting whole grain cereal," and he holds out a box and pours it over the caped toy.  “Oh no! Anything but that! Aaah!”

“Can you do this, like, anywhere else?”

“Aha, I fooled him! I actually like Donnie’s cereal ...--wow, Raphaelus, you may be cool but that is disgusting."

Passing through the room, he is soon met with a showdown between two of his brothers. And between their fiercely wrestling hands, what appears to be a 5-inch alien man wielding a sword. They butt heads and grapple each other, so he turns away out of annoyance and avoids their squabble. Thinking there probably won’t be any more time for meditation today.

They are within a particularly spacious corner of the sewer that has been fashioned by their father into a makeshift home. Not the most clean or visually appealing one, albeit. The walls and ground are hard and would be grey were it not for the handmade Japanese style panels surrounding it and the variety of beige carpets that they had accumulated over the years. In a crevice leading to an adjacent dead-end tunnel, their beds, or rather four sets of blankets and towels lining the floor.

"Leonardo. You have returned."

He shakily jolts himself to exchange glances with his master, melding his fists together and bowing to him.

"Did you enjoy your meditation, my son?"

"Oh, definitely, Master. It was ...uhh, refreshing.”

"So I can see.”

As his father says this, he eyes his son's drink stains and offers him a swab of cloth from his robe. Leo forces a chuckle out of his slight embarrassment and cleans himself. Still wet, as the trip was not a long one. His mutant rat father stands watching him for a time, noting that his son is taking longer than usual and dawdling about rather cluelessly.

"As much as I admire your dedication, you must understand that at this age there is much more that you can be engaging in during your free time than meditation. Why not read a book beside your brother?"

The rat then rests a hand on his shoulder and directs him to one slightly shorter sibling that is minding himself--what he wishes he could say about the rest of his family.

"Yes, Master Splinter."

Although he had some second thoughts on the matter, and that he'd perhaps like to spar with the training dummy or attempt some self reflection, he obediently wades over and crouches down by a towering stack of non-fiction neatly separated from a stack of comics. The latter, no doubt Mikey's.

"Hi, Donatello. What say you to me snagging a book?"

His brother dramatically blinks in surprise.

"Wha--really? One of mine? Are you sure you're feeling alright?”

While Donnie shamelessly giggles at his own quip, Leonardo can't help but feel like an alien in a strange land where his three brothers are always in on the joke and he's not. Fortunately, though Mikey and Raph would've been slow if not entirely incapable of guessing his feelings, Donatello quickly catches on and hands him a title.

"Sorry, Leo. You must be tired. Here, this is one of my favourites."

"'Differential Geometry and Science Metrics' ...yep, that’s a real zinger.”

“Isn’t it? I base virtually all of my scientific data theories on that one. I've read it, like, a hundred times.”

Leonardo would be lying if the name of this book wasn't the most utterly boring thing he'd ever heard in his entire life, which reminded him of exactly why he rarely chose to read with other people. Especially Donnie.

"You know what? It sounds so good, I think I'll save it for later. Hey, this one looks interesting.”

With a spark of curiosity ignited in his eyes, Leonardo lifts a worn paperback of which the cover is adorned by a painted samurai.

"That must be one of Master Splinter's! Woah, check it out. Those ninja weapons are way cool."

"Super cool.”

Relieved to have found a point of mutual interest with his brother, Leonardo began to excitedly flick through it. Feeling like kids again, he places the book out on the floor so that he and Donnie can rest on their bellies and their elbows. Their legs kick back and forth as they make various gasps and exclamations in awe. On one full page, a sketching of some legendary katana blade coupled with diagrams and annotations--not that Leonardo is the one paying any attention to that. Across the next, sprawling ink of a forest and two hunters guiding their bows to meet a fawn in the distance.

At the sight of a towering pole arm intricately adorned by decorative gold carvings and interlocking chains at the hilt, their mouths drop and they have to bite their fists and turn to the other as if to assist them in coming to terms with reality. By this time, all four brothers have gathered around the book and impertinently clamber over one another to get a better view. Michelangelo lifts himself on top of Raph, peering over his shoulder before clattering to the floor in a cloud of dust.

"Do you think Master Splinter will ever let us have our own weapons?"

"Real weapons, you mean? Not if you keep losing those training sticks,” raph says this to leo, who frowns at him.

Meanwhile Donatello puts a finger to his lips and ponders it. They all slowly look to each other and the next moment all the turtles are on their knees, crying 'Please!'. They are sat at the one typically quiet corner of the lounge, where thin panels have been propped up to create the illusion of a separate space. Against the stone wall at the very back of the room rests a tabletop of flickering candles, a framed black and white picture of their own master's master, among other tools and memorabilia.

And positioned horizontally and in the dead centre of the room rests a large sheet of bedding. Splinter himself stands before his sons, before silently walking up to a weapons rack and removing from it a quartet of wooden staves.

"First, show me that you are ready."

He tosses one to each of them, and Splinter enters a defensive stance. Leonardo lunges at him once he has secured a grip on the pole and swings it twice in quick succession by his master's feet. Both attempts fail to knock him off balance, rather, Leo is toppled over himself by means of his master pulling on a curtain hanging from the ceiling.

The draping cloth twirls under his leg and, in an effort to release it, Leonardo hops backwards. Backing too far, to the point where he lands flat on his shell and is made to watch his brothers pick up where he left off.

Raph is unsurprisingly taking the fight to closer quarters, coming face-to-face with Splinter and aiming strikes for his upper torso, meanwhile Michelangelo stays behind his father and prepares to land a hit parallel in height to Raph. The two attack in tandem, but Splinter swiftly ducks down and allows them to knock each other out. On impact, Raph and Mikey groan and rub their heads, while Leonardo sits back with his head cupped in his hands.

All that remains now is Donatello. Leo fixes his eyes on his brother as their last hope, as do the others. Yelling at him, 'Donnie! Donnie! Go get him, Donnie!'. And while under the pressure of their intense gaze, Donatello clumsily holds out the staff at such a distance that Splinter need only grab the end and twist it clockwise to send his son crashing to the floor. At that, Leonardo sighs and lays down his own staff.

"My sons, you are not ready for weapons. I know that you are capable of much more than what you have shown me today. As you are now, a weapon in hand will only cloud your mind from the way of a true ninja; which is using not only an instrument, but your wits, body and surroundings."

The four turtles organise themselves into sitting in a row below their master as they bow their heads. Through the corner of one eye, Leo idly watches Raphael survey the room out in front of him; the staves are scattered across the ground like a lost battle. Raph grits his teeth.

"Always use all tools at your disposal to win. And only when you understand this will I allow you to wield your own."

"But I already understand it. Today was a fluke!"

Splinter stares at Raphael, the rat's face relaxed almost in an effort to set his son at ease. And although the master remains quiet and vigilant, and makes little if any movement of his head, he sends a clear message to his student that says you are wrong and that I know better. The brothers leave the room in silence, all empty-handed, if only for the book that Leo carries underarm.

"So, that's it? ...Laaame! I wanted a plasma pistol, or a laser gun, at least."

"I think it's better this way. Otherwise, we would've been stuck with sticks for weapons. Sticks! Uh, yeah, no thanks. We're not Grandpas."

Mikey and Donnie cackle and high five each other. Leonardo sits with the book open, and Raphael punches a training dummy by himself. The rest of the night goes by without much of a peep from any of them, and within minutes they're tucked into bed. Donatello, having stayed up late to tinker some surveillance cameras, still has his palm over a wrench.

Meanwhile, Mikey is face down on the pillow and his twitching leg poking out from under the sheets kicks at a plush teddy--a sentimental remnant of early childhood that he's still too stubborn to let go of.

The only reason Leonardo can see any of this in the first place, is due to a crack in the wall that seeps into one particular tunnel with a manhole cover. What very faint light comes in, at the absence of their usual candles and floor lamps, also allows him to vaguely make out Raph's bed to the right of his.

The covers are pulled back, and it's empty, all except for what he assumes to be a joke book. One of the very few pieces of literature his brother finds any enjoyment in reading. Putting a burning match beside a candle, Leo carries it with him and climbs out of bed. Upon closer inspection, he finds that the book's cover is in fact the samurai painting. Well, it doesn't take much guess work to figure out what he's up to.

He is careful to not wake his brothers, or Splinter, for that matter, as he can see him through a gap in the wall panels of his master's bedroom. His head calmly laid down on its side, and his whiskers fluttering with each breath. Leonardo can also see the weapons rack, but there are only two staves instead of what should be three--thanks to him. Soon to be two, as, carefully treading around his father, he grabs his own, steps outside and faintly calls his brother's name in the dark.

"Raphael?" he says, and with no response and the apparent lack of another soul within the lounge asides from the odd cockroach, he imagines that his brother has ventured out into the sewers. And it's his job to find him.

\---

A weapon in hand will only cloud your mind from the way of a true ninja. He kicks his left foot behind him, and thrusts his arms forward with such force that it was although he was holding a javelin. Closing his eyes, he now sees the cool, wooden pole in his hands as a sharp tipped spear that effortlessly pierces through his opponent. Use not only an instrument, but your wits, body and surroundings.

Crying out in exasperation, he bats the air again in a forty-five degree underarm spin that would push his foe, if he had one, against the tunnel wall. Holding them in place by their neck. Panting, he stands like a trembling statue as his chest rises up and down.

The night is calm, but he is not. Taking the staff in his hands, he holds it out vertically and balances his weary head against it to catch just one last breath. Each and every movement, every technique, no matter how big or small, recollected from years of practice and watching his own master demonstrate the power of a weapon. Oh yeah, and add to that a couple of Kung Fu movies.

We are ninjas, and ninjas should be armed and ready for danger. And, speaking of danger, he could not help but notice in the waters behind him the pitter patter of feet not his own. He clenches his teeth, carefully stations himself in the tunnel and points the tip of his staff forward. His back crouched over, and eyes attentively scouring for any signs of movement.

Upon catching sight of a slightly bulky figure, and one standing at a few inches taller than himself, Raphael puts down the wooden pole and allows them to approach. Looking at him through the shadows with a tired smile torn between joy, relief, surprise, worry, and that same hint of anger and restlessness he seemed to always carry with him.

“Workmen aren't down here at this hour, you know.”

"'Course, that'd be most folk's first guess over a big, mutant turtle."

Leonardo draws closer, his staff now visible. His brother eyes it up and down.

"So ...it looks like you've caught me red handed. What're you gonna do now, Captain Killjoy? Tell on me?”

"I just thought I'd join you for practice.”

Raph's sarcastic smile contorts into one of scarcely seen genuine cheer, and he opens his arms in welcome before showing the point of his weapon.

"Practice away."

The two brothers face off against one another, and Leonardo finds himself in the same position that he once scorned before. Although there is a big difference in terms of productivity between fighting over a toy, and testing one's skills in armed combat. Leonardo observes that his brother is more competent with his weapon, but that goes without saying. He's had more experience. For it would not come as a shock to anyone if Raph had gone out by himself with his staff many times before.

A good distance away from the nearest hole and hence the prying eyes of humans on the streets above, they can safely clash their weapons. Raph's technique is more aggressive, and his strokes are much faster and harder, while Leo opportunistically waits for his brother's form to slip. And slip, he does.

Raphael, while intending to strike his brother, instead hammers the brunt of his staff against the wall. Vibrations echo along the tunnels, as it channels a whacking sound loud enough to wake the dead.

"The ceiling's too low--and the walls are all cushy!"

"Excuses, excuses," 

"Master Splinter always tells me to first blame yourself before another."

"Awh, I'm sowwy. Did I hurt the wittle sewer's feewings?"

He's not lying. The ceiling is rather low, and the walls are crammed to the point that they would make anyone feel claustrophobic had they not already been living here for thirteen years.

"Let’s go up top.”

Leonardo's face turns stone cold, and he barely manages to stammer "Uhh, what?". They'd never been out of the sewers before--at least, he'd not. The closest he'd ever been to the streets of New York were his brief glimpses through the grates, not to mention pictures of it in the many magazines and books at home. Raph's hands are already scaling a ladder to the exit, and he glares over his shoulders to watch his brother. Held in both of their faces a near identical look of disappointment, and uncertainty.

"...We can't go up there, Raph."

"See, I knew this was gonna happen! It was only a matter of when. 'Cause you're a chicken that always does what he's told, aren't ya?"

"Then you must be a headless chicken."

"Touché. I'm going up, so you can head back or do whatever it is you serious, boring types like to do."

There's no stopping him. Raph lifts the grate with two hands and he's blinded by a flash of street lights. Slamming down the metal opening behind him, he leaves his brother alone in the dark below to think and fend for himself. Leonardo wasn't typically one to act on impulse, but on this occasion he knew his brother was in danger.

The outside world was a curious place, and he felt himself blasted by a cold wave of air. Not just from above him, this time, but from all sides. It was as though he were being engulfed inside a hurricane, and not an unpleasant one, at that. But he didn't come here to sight see. The nearest alleyway was wide open, and, thinking to himself, where would I go if I was stupid and reckless, he ducks inside, turns a corner, and, sure enough, there's his brother mindlessly beating his stick against the air.

"Changed your mind, huh?"

"Listen, Raphael--we 'serious and boring' types don't too much enjoy seeing our brothers getting themselves killed."

"Well, good! I was getting real tired of training by myself. Let's fight?"

Not much changes in their tactics, only that they now have an extra metre or two of space around them. And it's definitely a lot more comfortable than down there. Physically, at least. Mentally, even Raphael can't help but feel a tad uneasy with the ever present risk of a human stumbling across them. It's fine, he reassures himself. We can deal with it. But with only spruce at their disposal, if any real thug found them as they were, and at this meek age of early adolescence, perhaps they could not.

The four brothers had been extremely lucky thus far to not be spotted, and that luck is greatly attributed to their master's watchful eye, and his total refusal to allow his sons out under any circumstances. They could not count with six fingers how many times they had been warned of what would happen to them should they be found and caught, but, even so, they did not yet fully understand it. The fate that they would be subjected to: of strange, mutant turtles cruelly degraded to mere lab rats.

And even if they were spared such an existence, what then? Remain living in a society that would surely shun them? Not likely. Indeed, humanity has perhaps changed a bit since then, though the turtles have such faith in their master as to wholeheartedly believe in his omens. So, it should not come as any surprise that Leonardo nearly jumped out of his shell at the sound of a third footstep. Especially while they were so close to a locale Leo had nearly been caught in not long before.

"I think there's someone out there."

The two stop dead in their tracks and stay motionless, clinging on to their poles while carefully listening to the thud, thud, thudding of boots on the sidewalk. Someone is out there, and they're getting closer. Leonardo turns to his brother for aid, praying that he'll know what to do. Well, he doesn't. But he can at least pretend.

Grabbing Leo's hand, he whisks him into the shadows and behind a pile of trash. Thinking he's found some waste on his arm, Raph reaches to pull it off, only to find the fingers of his brother tight around him. And, as a shadow emerges from the street side, Raphael feels that he'd like to do the same. If only it weren't uncool.

Stepping by a flickering neon sign, a man is exposed. It wouldn't matter how old he was or what he looked like, because any human at this point would scare them. Although it doesn't help that this one is particularly tall and lanky. As they are ninjas, the brothers go unseen. The human continues down its path, none the wiser, and Leonardo removes his hand in knowing that they are safe. But Raph doesn't think so.

Five toed feet wander an inch more, at every passing second, closer to their hiding spot. Raphael's eyes wander focused and effortlessly as he tightens his grip around his staff. Yet he seeks to hold another. Sensing a tug, Leonardo looks down. His brother's hand across his own weapon, he shoots him a deathly glare that says, "What the Hell are you thinking?". But, by that time, he already knows.

Pouncing from the garbage heap and handling twin poles, the man under the midnight sky gawks and shouts at the outline of a creature baring its teeth. Raph takes a swing at his foe, though this would barely send him to his knees. Unknown to Raph, his brother had by then escaped from the pile and managed to cross the alley. Leo raises his leg to bash in the back of the man's skull, who buckles over and hits the pavement with a crack. Still awake, the brothers kick him twice more and he's out cold.

"Congratulations, sod for brains. You jumped a civilian!" "I never should've let you go up.”

"He was gonna see us."

"And now he has, for sure."

Leo narrows his eyes at his brother as he tears the staves away from a grip loose enough to suggest compliance. The two know full well they've finally exposed themselves to the world, but what now?

"Should we kill him?"

Bopping Raph over the head with a stick silences his snickering, and they choose to head home. For all they can do now is leave the human as is and pray tell he'll think of them as just two kids in turtle costumes, or a figment of his imagination. Not that anyone would ever believe in mutant ninja turtles. They slid inside a grate like water running through the cracks. Leaving their victim to sort amidst the clutter and to ease awake, another in knee-highs towering before him. Their protruding cap presenting a blackened contour over the resident’s shaken and drowsy face.

"Raph. We have to tell Splinter."

He is hesitant to admit that he shares the same sentiment. Needless to say, their master was none too pleased to hear of their actions that night. The two were sat down at a lecture for hours on end, leaving Donnie and Mikey to place bets with pizza coupons on which brother would come out first.

Splinter knew this would one day happen, and perhaps it already had without his knowing, thus, he alleviated some of his sons guilt by carefully embroidering his words with a show of empathy and acceptance. But at the same time, their father recognised the gravity of the situation. He knew something had to be done.

Before the break of dawn one morning, the sons awoke to find Splinter gone, and a note that said he would soon return. The abruptness and apparent lack of reason for his departure left Leo and Raph thinking they were somehow responsible, and their minds would be plagued with unease were it not for their fellow brothers who cracked hapless smiles and jokes at their expense. But, sure enough, by the evening they came to find a rat at the door, and carrying a bundle.

They each had many questions, all of which would be answered in an instant by means of their master unveiling the package, which contained an assortment of real ninja weapons. They watched each other, confused. Leonardo assumed it was for a lesson; Raph, tools to beat them with; Donatello admired the excellent craftsmanship; Mikey, Christmas?

"My sons, what occurred some nights ago has brought to my attention that it is no longer simply the case that you are not ready to carry weapons. You must have them."

As their father lingered on, he admonished as to how this was now a matter of life and death: of Ninjutsu being, first and foremost, the art of survival. The master then directed them to arm themselves from the pile with what they thought would best complement their fighting style.

Leonardo was first, for the master had most confidence in him prior to the son's recent display level headedness. He lifted a pair of sais, which appeared as dual three-point daggers, for although the katana had initially caught his attention, he was interested in testing something a little more exotic and unfamiliar. Donatello took up some nunchucks, valuing their speed and utility.

Raphael approached next, however he would then be sternly turned away by Splinter, who said to wait until his lesson was learned. A lesson he had by now come to know very well, though apparently not well enough. Meanwhile, Michelangelo ran for the coolest thing he could get his hands on: dual katanas.

Steadying himself over the training mats, Leonardo grasps at his weapon. Ready, guys? No response. Across his shoulder, his brothers are standing around Splinter, who is motionless, and his eyes are shut. Fingers weaved into an upturned basket, head bent down in reflection, but his grey brows crossed and fixated on something. Something certainly troubling him, as he blinks awake and springs to his feet. His sense of urgency is transferred to his sons, who have fallen stern and silent.

\---

"Remember, guys; step one: convince the cop that we're sewer gangsters. Step two: we let him kick our butts. And step three: he thinks he's chased us off and that's the end of that."

“I still think you’re a hack, Leo. You, like, totally stole my movie pitch.”

It took them long enough to bring Raph on board, who had outright refused to participate in a plan he openly condemned for being feeble-minded and stupid. Though he understood to some extent that with someone high on their tails, they didn't exactly have a lot of options. The sun's out, and still the sewer's dimmer than ever.

Donatello props out his goggles, complete with body heat sensors, and scans around. Spotting a uniform headed their way. The turtles themselves are dressed in shabby gray trench coats, and have their faces and bodies covered head-to-toe in masks and wrappings, for obvious reasons.

“Well, you four certainly don’t look like giant alligators.”

“Giant alligators? In New York? Oh-ho, let me guess, they can fight, too.”

“...They can, actually. Did. You know where they are. And now, you’re gonna tell me.”

“I really should’ve worked Raphael’s big, fat mouth into this.”

After an over-enthusiastic thumbs up towards his bros, Mikey gets the camera rolling. He steps up, slow-walking like a quick draw at noon. If he had boot spurs, they'd be clinking. Eye-to-eye with the officer he dips his snapback. Absent-mindedly humming to himself a strikingly familiar Western motif, mouthing "Whoo-wa-woo, waaah waaah waaah, whoo-wa-woo--" until Leo grips his forearm to shut him up.

"Okay, okay, okay. Let's go." Mikey mouths with a dejected sigh.

The four charge into battle, and, although they had prior agreed on allowing this guy to 'win', none of them were planning on getting beat up so easily. 

“I am so gonna do the city a service with this.”

In self defence, the rugged-looking stranger charges in himself to take on the first line of troops. Raphael waits at the helm, and only armed with a training staff at his father's behest, he takes a crack at knocking the middle-aged creep down against a scrapped ventilation system. Swinging as best he can, but something holds him back. His deathly grip on the pole perhaps better suited for clinging to metal. Nonetheless the cop takes a fall, headfirst in fact, into the hard iron ventilation.

"Hey--you guys like chickens, right?"

Thrusting his knee at an overhanging grate, it clatters to his neck and holds the man in place.

"'Cause this one's cooped up for ya. Ha ha!"

"Cool, but, like, uh, I thought he was supposed to be pasting us.”

"Getting there, Mike. I'm getting there."

Muttering some incoherent, angry garble, the man flails his legs as the turtles stand around him and act as if they've been hit. However, the fight wouldn't be as easy as they thought. Their captive audience member has freed himself and nearly restrains Donnie, had the turtle not already trapped himself with poorly flung nunchucks. They all appear to be slightly inept at their choice of weapons, and their adversary takes full advantage of this by first baiting Michelangelo into wedging his sword's edge inside a pipe.

"Awh, man! Stuck in the lock! This dude's pretty good."

“Thank you.”

"You're just bad, Mikey.”

Leonardo dashes for his target through the chaos, about to uppercut him with one sai. His attempt swiftly fumbles when his target moves away, leaving Leo to bury his own blades between a gap in the wall. Raph stands off the enemy, the two facing each other and pacing in a circular motion. Behind them, Donnie prepares to free Mikey. After whacking him loose fails, he begins to awkwardly chisel at the katanas like he's hammering a nail. And by the time he's pried them out, Leo's managed to do the same, and Raph has his back to the floor in a violent mud wrestling match with their so far unsuccessful interrogator.

"Swap weapons, guys!"

They all nod in agreement and toss them round. Raph admires his newfound swords and clashes with the knife pointed towards, continuing to keep the other occupied. He squints at a nametag peeking out of his jacket.

“‘Mundi’?”

When Mikey catches the staff, he loudly grumbles, "Anyone wanna trade!?". Leo looks down at his chucks and has a long, hard think about what the heck he's supposed to do with them, and Donnie, spotting Raph in cinch, launches a sai through the air. Their foe flinches, allowing Raphael back on his feet.

Donnie's feeling pretty good about himself, until he leans back and again punctures the hole in the pipes his brother made. Expanding it enough to let bouts of steam through. While the four are bent down in a coughing fit, Leo supports himself against the wall, head above the clouds. Think fast. This guy’s vision is covered by the fumes, but his brothers are blind as well.

"He's got me! Oh, the pain. Please, stop, we surrender."

It doesn't take long for the other turtles to get the idea, although Mikey hesitates over the theft of his action scenes. They feign defeat, and anguish over broken bones, lost limbs and what-not. Once the steam has cleared and left the tunnel, the smug officer stands over them victorious.

"Sir, have mercy ...! We'll leave the sewers in peace. We'll give up our gangsta lives for good."

“No can do. You all know something I don’t--about the creatures that’re sneaking around these sewers. I’m gonna get to the bottom of those rumors, or so help me, I’ll turn you all in and the coppers will.”

"Turn us in!? That wasn't in the contract, Donnie!"

"Engage Step three-point-five: improvise!”

Their idea of improvisation is to fight, and for real this time. Focusing their weapons, they all stare down at the same time and come to realise that perhaps they aren't best equipped right now. Leonardo calls out, 'Swap!' and they once again exchange the arms amongst themselves. Mikey spins the chucks and slowly nods his head up and down, Leo, concentrating on the battle ahead, takes a stance that near perfectly accommodates his blades. Raph runs his fingers up and down the sais, and Donnie is disappointed to find himself stuck with a training staff.

"Ooh, watch out, exterminator dude. Granddaddy Don is gonna get you with his walking stick!"

"Hm ...I had another comment in mind, but I think I know better,"

Frowning at them, Donatello threateningly raises the staff in the air, to which Mikey wraps his chucks around the pole's tip and uses it to wallop the intruder on the leg. They hop up and down, hissing in pain.

“Nice shot, Mikey ...you’re still gonna apologise to me later, though!”

During this, Raph and Leo are busy working together, with Raph sitting on his shoulders and fitting the end of his sais inside the hole of a sealed manhole cover. Raising it off its hinges, and then releasing the circular metal plate so that it comes raining down on the man behind them.

"Well, Doctor Don--what's the diagnosis?"

“A minor skull fracture--and in this situation, the most effective course of action would be exposure to the nearest natural relaxant: animal therapy. Animals are scientifically proven to relieve pain and anxiety."

Chuckling excitedly, Mikey begins to remove his hat and mask, who would soon be followed by his brothers. The cover rests over the stranger's head like a ten tonne blanket that he slowly heaves off himself, only to be witness to a crowd of giant turtles. Shells in full view and their grins and green and spots glinting under the sunlight that trickles through. Already barely conscious, his voice raises a whimper before blacking out.

"You know, I kinda feel bad for the guy. He was just doing his civic duty and try’na clear us outta the sewers.”

"And we were doing ours. Leo and I screwed up big time, so this is the price we have to pay for it ...sorry for involving you guys, though."

"Woah. Rewind, Raph. Was that you being  _ sentimental _ ?"

The glare in his eyes returns as fleetingly as it had left, and he proceeds to punish Mikey with light punches. It already feels like they’re back home.

"It's a good thing the guy was completely out of it, or we'd have to go through that all over again."

But just to make sure, the four of them bring the body to a remote spot above ground. Ritualistically lying their clothes around him, and leaving by his feet drawings of crudely drawn turtle heads. The brothers kneel before their master, the candles on the mantelpiece lit with soothing incense and emitting a warm, tangerine glow. In front of each son sits his final weapon; katanas, sais, nunchucks, and a bo staff. Though Raph holds his out to Splinter. Waiting for his master to snatch them away, though he never does. Rather, he wraps his hands around Raphael's and smiles at him earnestly.

"As my sons, you never fail to amaze me at how fast you are able to grow. Many nights I wonder how it feels as if it were only yesterday, that you four were normal, baby turtles that I happened upon in the sewers. That we were transformed by accident with a strange ooze. Though it is by no mere accident that you have become the ninjas that you are today."

He paces to each of the brothers and hands them simple eye masks, four varying in colour.

"Masks are to hide one's identity, although I'm sure by now you understand your unique appearance lends you little aid to that. Instead, I grant you these out of pride, and tradition, for in days long since passed my Master Yoshi wore his mask as did you."

After inspecting them, they hold the masks up to each of their faces. Tying them at the back of their heads, to which they end in two bushy flaps of cloth. For Leonardo, a blue mask; Michelangelo, orange; Donatello, purple; and Raphael, red. And like a hive mind the four deduced that it was by no mere coincidence in how what they wore perfectly matched the colour of the subsequent turtle's beady irises, save for the fabric's brighter hue, and a carefully woven black stripe across the masks’ middle. Carefully watching Splinter, the sons are reminded that although they may have proven themselves able to wield their own weapons, they have yet to display their capabilities in the outside world.

This lesson resonates with them even long after they have relapsed to their everyday lives, with Leonardo in particular taking it to heart. Feeling some new, heavy weight over his shoulders. The idea that he must care for his brothers, that which had never occurred to him before, and neither Raphael. After all, had it not been for their exploits up top, the wheels of change would have never squeaked an inch.

Mikey chows down on a bag of chips over some much needed TV, and joined by a daydreaming Leonardo. Raphael watches his brother's silly programmes from afar. Donatello stands alone in his workshop, though he would be far from lonely, intensely driven with the desire to create. That being, continuing his work on security cameras for him to install around the underground. Which brings the turtles to another lesson, that of readiness.

For in these sewers, in the dark, and as a close-knit family with no enemies and no allies, their strength lies in their steadily advancing skills in the ancient art of Ninjutsu, and in their cohesiveness. Yet, and as they had been told time and time again, one must always be ready for anything.


	2. Here For You

Gawking, unblinking, at a flickering blue-green screen is Donatello. A single desk holds a horde of buzzing monitors, and beneath the static lines are faintly moving snapshots inside and outside the sewers. Having tired himself touching up on his latest gadget, a grappling hook, he clicks his mouse and alternates the position of one camera to be north facing. There, he watches what he presumes to be a university student wandering down an alley. Easily identifiable by a bag marked with their school's insignia.

It comes as no surprise to Don when the student is grabbed from behind and carried off-screen. He clicks again, to witness the helpless victim struggle and be tossed inside the trunk of a moving vehicle. There goes another one. His security cam set up certainly provided a quick means of surveying the sewer entrances, but it also opened his eyes to the surge in criminal activity.

"Yo, Donatello! There's fresh eats in the kitchen for ya--you wanna come get?"

He at least had to courtesy to swivel round in his seat when shaking his head, but immediately went right back to work. Curious, Michelangelo creeps up and peeks across his brother's shoulder.

"What gives? You've been staring at that blank screen all day!"

"I know, Mikey. But, I just ...I gotta keep an eye up top. Recent string of kidnappings."

"...You're crazy, man. Like, when's the last time you had a decent meal?"

Met with a clueless expression coupled with a dragged out pause, stomping towards them signals an encroaching Leo and Raph. The two brothers spring on the unsuspecting Donatello, and, after educating him on the importance of basic physiological needs, drag him to the kitchen. Hopelessly reaching out for his computer as if to grasp its hand, Don demands that Mikey take his post, and that he does. But not without first checking to see if his bro's set up is DVD compatible. Which it isn't. Sighing, he kicks up his feet and eyes the screens. Thinking that this is probably what reality TV would look like minus the people, and the budget.

But, kidnappings? Surely there's something that he and his brothers could do, at least, something a little more than simply letting it happen. Because even if they didn't owe the city folk anything, they're still people. People that his family were more than capable of protecting. He'd had nagging thoughts like these before, and purely because of that he'd grown accustomed to the typical response of 'We're not superheroes, Mikey'. Well, anyone would much rather be a superhero than a security guard.

The camera footage hadn't picked up anything so far, but, within an hour, he caught a glimpse of something and it didn't take him very long to figure out what. Two thugs, purposefully directing themselves to some hidden location. Mikey sat up, grabbed the mouse, and cut to the upcoming street corner as fast as he could. There, he spied on a lone woman going at a slow dawdle, like she was asking to get kidnapped.

As his field of view was fixed to the wall, only one side of her was visible. But he liked what he saw. Her bright cardigan shimmering in the sun, each strand of crocheted wool like gold dust; whimsically frolicking hair that he ogled in a trance, and a cute face--if a little on the older looking. Heck, maybe even a lot older. Not that he'd tell any woman that.

"Hubba hubba!"

Checking the location at the bottom of the screen, he perked up upon realising that this unlucky lady couldn't be more than five minutes away. So, without thinking, he runs through to the kitchen and plucks Don like a feather. Leo blankly watches his brother perform a vanishing act, oven mitts frozen in place and gripping at a fresh meal. Raph yells at him and frantically vaults across tables and chairs to keep chase of Mikey, who then dumps his hostage in front of the computer. Don's voice muffled through the slice of pizza still clenched between his teeth.

"C'n yhou guysh make up yhour mindsh!?"

"Yes, we can--and my plan’s to gift Mikey here a ten tonne pounding!"

"Woah, woah, woah! I promise, this is super, mega-omega important. Check your PC, Don.”

Don, and Raph also, half regretted doing so, because the next thing they knew, they were all ankle deep in grungy sewer water. Two of the brothers play follow the leader through the underpass, tagging behind a turtle with the thick oval straps on the rear of his violet mask bobbing up and down. Clutching at a GPS, Donatello carefully monitors a red dot they're drawing closer to. And once within range, they turn up to a manhole. Donnie briefly takes peek out of it: behind him, the girl. In front, the sleeve of a jacket emerging from the far right street corner.

"This is total snoozeville! How long 'til they're in position?"

"Well, factoring in the approximate distance from our current location, I'd say twelve meters--and dividing that by a slightly above average walking speed of three-point-four miles per hour ..."

Above ground, one hoodlum launches a blade at the girl, that tears through her trouser leg. Scarcely skimming past flesh. In surprise, her body collapses and then crawls away, the would attackers high on her tail.

"...distance over speed equates time, four seconds ...and subtracting the duration of my calculations: two, one--!"

While he and Mikey are crammed atop the ladder, they drag open the grate. Amassing a gap to oblivion that sends their adversaries raining down and out cold, but dog-piling over an equally unsuspecting Raph.

"Fabuloso, Donnie! Now, don't mind me--just gonna go catch this babe's home address!"

Before Don can finish telling Mikey he really doesn't think that's such a good idea, he's already on the rooftops, and Raph is still complaining about getting the life squeezed out of him. Wedging his bo staff between his brother and the bodies, cautious not to wake them, Donatello is able to drag out a wounded Raphael. With some effort, hauling the men topside. Wrapping his arm around Raph, they painstakingly shuffle home. Only to be welcomed--or rather, un-welcomed--by their lone sibling's unruly gaze.

\---

Don relaxes over his bed, head comfortably propped up by a set of pillows as he carefully tweaks at his latest invention. Occasionally reaching over to eloquently sip at a carbonated drink, with legs neatly folded across. He wishes Leo could lay back like this every once in a while instead of worrying himself sick over what Raph keeps calling, just a fractured rib or two. Mikey's also been surprisingly quiet, although he suspects that's because his little brother is up to something. And sure enough it doesn't take long at all for him to appear from the shadows and confirm those suspicions.

"Hey, Don, if you're not doing anything can you please send this?"

After he's done asking him why, and what for, Donatello checks through the packaged letter he's handed and bursts out laughing.

"A love letter? Ha ha ha! You're amazing! Did you forget this girl is at least twice your age?"

"Oh, gimme a break. Half of it ain't that. Anyway, just get it sent--I’m staying here with Raphy.”

"Fine, fine ..."

He flips it over to the address on the back. Would've been a lot easier if Mikey went himself and saved him the trouble of going on a wild goose chase around the city for some place he's never seen before, but, hey-ho. Donatello can't help but respect Mike's compassion and desire to stay by his brother's side. Always the sympathetic one, if this silly letter didn't speak for itself.

Master Splinter had warmed up a little to the idea of the turtles going outside, but he still wasn't entirely accepting or comfortable with it. Don knew full well he'd like to try and stop them, so it brought him much confusion as to why he hadn't. Perhaps, it wasn't that he approved of his sons going out, but rather that he was presently incapable of deterring them. Over the past couple of weeks, he'd been in his room meditating and hadn't spoken to them much at all. Sometime he ought to ask Leo, who he understood was the most spiritually in tune. Not that Don would be able to make any sense of what he has to say. 'Communing with the soul', he'd tell him, or some other kind of mumbo jumbo.

Checking each and every building on the street was exceptionally tedious, not to mention time consuming. Pulling the goggles he typically has strung across his forehead down, he is able to enlarge the number on each door as to make them out from afar. Five-eighty-one. Sneaking round the side, he scopes the place out. Being an apartment complex made it more difficult, but not impossible. Don scales up one window, gripping the letter, and then stopping for a minute. Back at the lair, he only managed a quick look. Met with curiosity, not to mention a hint of worry should his brother reveal too much, he slipped off the envelope. Pondering between proofreading it and respecting his brother's privacy. Oh, what the heck. Tucking his shell closer to the glass, he sits back to enjoy Mikey's writing.

"I don't want you guys going out like that again. Splinter told us what goes on in the city isn't any of our business."

Raph would like to argue with him right away, and tell him that he's a self-righteous twerp, but, the tube was showing something a little more interesting right now. And his chest hurt like Hell. And, besides, Mikey's already doing his job for him, by reminding Splinter Junior over here the girl was about to get 'napped. Speaking of kidnappings, Raph shuts them up and turns their eyes towards the screen.

_ "I'm Sandra Hershell and you're watching Channel Six News. Today, in the early morning on fifth avenue, Houston Street, there were allegations of an assault attempt on a woman. Local eyewitnesses say ..." _

"Oh, tell me her name, Sandra! Tell me her name!"

Mikey's finger clasp around the sides of the TV set, watching and listening intently, while also preventing his angry brothers from doing the same. When she is simply referred to anonymously, he shrinks back and hangs his head. But the reporter does give them some info that's a lot more important, and more interesting than that: the name of the perpetrators, a group calling themselves the Purple Dragons, and how the attacks are strangely only concerning students and teachers from an upstate science university.

"If the crimes were targeted, that means it's likely that they'll be back for her. Where's Donatello?"

"Don't worry about him. I just sent Donnie boy over to the girl's place and--oh ...crud!"

When he's finished giggling to himself over Mikey's letter, he pops it back in the envelope and prepares to bust in through the window. Only, Donatello spots something that catches his eye. Carted out the front door is what he assumes to be a six foot human model, dressed in a blanket. A supply vehicle pulls up by the sidewalk, where the model is lifted into the back with the help of their damsel in distress. The van itself, marked on the side with a label that reads 'Stockman Institute of Science': only the uni with the most highly advanced tech in the country!

Although he did promise Mikey, this is simply too good of an opportunity to pass up. His nerd levels peak at seeing the model raised from the two-wheeler. The sheet briefly coming undone, revealing a weaponized android. Donnie's off faster than you can say pizza, and, in his moment of overwhelming excitement and delirium, he drops the letter at the foot of the door. Having only loosely folded over the sleeve's flap, the letter spews out. Just as Mikey clambers down to his turtle dove's humble abode.

"Don? Donnie? Donatello? ...Complete loser short stack four-eyed geek?"

Wow, even that didn't draw him out. His bro nowhere in sight, he wonders if he's gone home already. Bummer. Scouting around; the opened letter, the envelope addressed to a miss 'Hot Babe on the Top Floor'. An oncoming guy in a purple jacket. Mikey takes to the shadows, and observes as he wanders up the steps. They probably wouldn't have seen the letter at all had it not made a soft crinkling sound under his boot. A look of cunning, and comprehension spreading across his face as he reads it. Mikey sees a tattoo on their forearm. A dragon. No time to think. His nunchakus emit a satisfying schwing of friction by the metallic padding strewn across his belt, trench coat flowing in the urban breeze.

\---

On the outside, it would appear like any other astoundingly normal, albeit rundown, grotty storehouse. Inside, however, Don found none other than what had to be the most technically complex security software he'd ever seen. And had the pleasure of cracking, of course. It couldn't've been more than two minutes 'til he was in. Stockman labs was no joke--they even had fences aligned to keep out prying eyes, but what they hadn't been anticipating were the eyes of a particularly techno-savvy turtle.

Outwith corrugated steel doors number one and two, the last foe he had to traverse was a night shift worker loitering on the ground floor. That shouldn't be too problematic. As long as Don kept his mouth shut, he would be free to embrace these sprawling corridors home to works of genius. Androids, that which appeared as dangerous as they did slick and visually stunning. He looked up to one from behind an iron shaft. Holding his face, teeth biting down, initially to contain his excitement and then to mask internal screaming at recognising the suppressed chime of the turtle com.

It buzzed in his coat pocket and then his hands as he sporadically ripped it out. Jamming the button down thousands of times, and whispering into it, the speaker tucked beneath his collar. Thank God for the guard's choice of footwear, as it was the only thing besides him to break the silence.

"Hey, are you there, Donatello? Are you in trouble!?"

"Shh! Leo, I'm fine. Take it easy."

He sighed at the irony of finding Leo's panicked ramblings calming, if only for the sake of familiarity. The guy can be so noisy sometimes. And his brother’s voice only spiked louder, if unintentionally, once Don was finished telling him about how he's not at the apartment.

"I can't believe this. Mikey could be getting maimed as we speak, and you're out doing ...tech stuff!"

"Yeah, I guess I got a little distracted."

It shouldn't be that big of a deal. Mike's a whack job, for sure, but he can take care of himself. At least, that's what he'd like to think, if he wasn't immediately rescinded in how a whole gang's maybe on his tail now.

"Leo, I have a feeling that gang is after the robots in here. They're packed with beryllium alloys and tetrahydrocarbon explosives."

About ninety percent of that just completely went over Leo’s head. But 'explosives' is all he needs to hear.

"Okay, I get you. Stay put and don't let the Purple Dragons near them. I'll fetch Mikey. Out."

\---

Streaks of an overhead gleam ignite reflections in clinking iron. Whirling his nunchucks, they strike at a pocket knife, though fail to disarm. Mikey skips back. Narrowly evading a cut, hence his sensing of a cool pressure against his sleeve. He spins round the chucks again, starting like a car exhaust and then grinding to a slow halt at spotting the street light behind. One chain bounces through the night air, once thrown, and slings across the lamp's neck. Mikey drags himself up, his weight causing the post to creak. Bending low and far enough for him to kick the guy in the face.

Pelting him a fair distance, the crook smacks on the pavement while the turtle silently waltzes from lamp edge to bricked footing. Landing in a crouch, on his toes, soft as a pillow. His fist pressed down for support, and to spring himself upright. But not a moment after this display Mikey would then shamelessly cast a finger down in mocking.

"Mikester's Revenge, now out in cinemas near you!"

Black clouds like men pour out from every direction. His moment of triumph is short-lived. Mikey takes a moment to count them all--well not exactly all of them, he wasn't in the mood for Maths, so let's just say there was a heck of a lot of folk and none of them looked very happy to see him.

"So, um, I think this just turned into one of those movie franchises where there's way too many sequels and it goes bad."

When they hold out their guns, Mikey threateningly poises one chuck like a sniper rifle. But he quickly remember they're A, not hollow, and B, got no bullets. And this is exactly why you don't bring nunchucks to a gunfight.

"Now that I think about it, that happened to Super Turtle Colossus!"

In the short few seconds he has before they open fire, he panics around only to find no cover in sight. Shots rain down, but not on him. Mikey's rugby tackled to the street by a flash of red, his mentally elder though physically shorter brother's shell shielding him at the cost of one or two dents.

"Like, thanks, dude, but aren't you supposed to be in bed? What am I gonna tell Leo!?”

"You just tell that guy that he can kiss my shell.”

Springing from the ground, a long, rusty pipe swings at Raph's neck. So he ducks down, coils his fingers round and plunges it onto the skull of his attacker. Mikey still wonders what Leo could've possible said this time to tick his bro off, not that it ever took much.

“Yeah ...I'm not gonna ask.”

Raph kicks a guy in the abdomen before feeling his own. A shivering ache sent down his chest, muscles tightening. It was typically Mikey that brought the slack, but on this occasion he was solely responsible for picking it up. Mikey calls out his brother’s name. Raph’s battered while down, and by the time his attackers are fended off, Mike has to shake him from his heavily disoriented and barely conscious state. NYPD sirens. The last turtle standing takes a look behind at a stunned onlooker talking into their phone. Shrugging, and thinking that although Raph could barely stand, he’d likely complain about this later--of ninjas trained for thirteen years getting bailed out by the cops. Better that than be hopelessly outnumbered, at least.

“You’re gonna be okay, dude. I’m gonna get you outta here.”

Towing his brother to shelter, the dragons curse under their breath and quickly draw back from the oncoming police cars. An apartment room light that had prior been switched off releases a wary, effervescent glow. A woman’s head appears. She casts her gaze to the streets below, that now lawfully flicker red and blue. Running out, the girl takes with her a silvery car, discretely cramming six foot hardware into the backseat before taking off. Cops scarcely noticing its departure through their interrogation of local eyewitnesses. Their flashlights wade around, skimming across crouched thugs in the dark who stare at the leaving car. Nodding at each other, crooks make their way in its direction on bikes chained to back alleys.

\---

Donatello reclines on precarious scaffolding, passing the time by picking his nails and prying apart various scattered electronics. The nightwatchman had occupied this segment of the building for such a time that he and Leo had been forced to remain stationary for hours. Left to his thoughts, Donnie concentrates on one android. Spotting an emblem on it, and written in bold the words 'Mouser Plus'. Boots trot away, and finally the two brothers are free to roam. Don excitedly hops across to the machine, where he is followed reluctantly. Removing a rear panel to reveal its circuit board.

“Think you can deactivate them?”

Donnie flexed his fingers. “You know me."

He pulls down his goggles and delicately tweaks sets of wires until the android strangely comes alive. At first, he stands confused, as does his brother, and this immediately changes to regret once it whips out a cannon and blasts a hole through the wall. The explosive rumble is felt some yards away, where a red-haired woman on the outside hauling heavy machinery stumbles and feels the ground. Looking at the busted wall, clouds of dust stirring and bulky, and a coat wearing silhouette fighting.

“Oh, great.”

“Sorry.” Donatello awkwardly chuckles, as he takes out his staff and a security guard approaches, preparing to apprehend him. Suddenly spinning his bo behind, it halts upon unwittingly bludgeoning the guard in the face. “Sorry!” Don mutters again, as the robot’s plated fist swings for Leonardo. Launching a kick, Donnie pummels it into the side of a horizontally facing car that skids back on impact. A car which the girl had been hiding behind. The bot is briefly slowed, but a faint scream trapped beneath a cacophany of successive bangings, screeching wheels and the shattering of glass sends Don to rush behind and grab her. Bikes in the distance, the Purple Dragons. He eyes down, the girl conveniently unconscious. “Not sorry!” and at that he whisks her away. For a moment leaving Leonardo to battle alone.

The machine climbs out from its crushed imprint on the side of the car, and Leo stares it down. Thrashing his sword, steel against steel, he comes to realise the futility of his action once it bounces back and the blade lightly bonks him on the head. He moans and grips his brow.

“Yeah, I always wanted to go one-on-one with a riot shield …”

“Leo, I could really use a hand here!” Donatello calls out, as he struggles to hold his ground against a gang of thugs. Though Leo sneers as he himself would be facing a near impenetrable hunk of metal.

“You said it.”

Both of them knew they could not allow the dragons to lay a finger on these Mousers, or whatever they were called. For although the brothers were yet unclear as to the gang's motives, they probably weren’t after world peace. So it didn't make it any easier for the turtles in that there was one active robot wandering out in the open, and it all came down to who could tame it first.

Having finally freed himself from the rabble, Donnie spies out the machine and scavenges inside his belt. Grasping his grappling hook, and proudly steering it to meet the android’s back panel.

“Hold on, I’ve got this,” Don clamors, tongue revealing itself in concentration and piston firing, only for the shot to falter and dent the ground. Not wishing to waste another moment after catching Donnie’s grumble, Leo dashes round its side and cuts one rear bolt clean off, exposing dangling circuitry.

The next thing they knew, a spark of silver soared straight at the tin can from across the street, followed by an ocean blue wave of surging electricity. The mouser topples over, a sai in its back, as Mikey punches the air.

“Bullseye, aha ha! Don't ever play darts with me, guys.”

Raph, who had Mike's arm around his shoulder, gave him a weak glare that said, you better get that back for me, or you're dead . Don was somewhat dismayed at such a technological marvel being laid to waste, but there were plenty more where that came from. And not only that, but they were also visible through a gaping hole in the wall.

At Raph's request, he and Mikey hobble to meet their brothers. Leo waiting in front of the crater, taunting the dragons, and when they take the bait, he kicks a crate between them. The first crook rams straight into it, catapulting over and groaning as his chest is pummelled. They are soon joined by another attempting to pounce on the cackling Leo, who, in response, cries “Leapfrog!”, ducks down and sends the poor guy flying.

The last remaining encircle a hapless Don. One fist raised towards him, he holds out his staff, only to then have it tore from his hands and cast aside. Don is forced to the ground, unarmed, and confronted by a jagged knife’s edge. He shields his face. Leonardo jumps into the fray, ready to step between, were it not for Raph who had by then freed himself from Mikey’s grip as to rush in himself.

“Raph, don't!--”

\---

The floor felt frigid. That was the first thought that crossed their mind, upon waking up in this twisted, and incredibly uncomfortable position within a pitch black storage closet. She shook herself and scaled the walls, balancing against the surrounding shelves and trying the knob. However, although light and a draft crept in from the slightly ajar door, it would not budge easily for boxes and metal bars barricaded the other side.

Pushing and hauling with the full weight of her body, the door finally springs free. She stares down, sighing at dirt and the shards of glass that speckled her blouse. Stepping out into the daylight, she expected to run into that active Mouser Plus, or the Purple Dragons, or even the guy in the trench coat. But all that remained was a complete mess, and a guard knocked unconscious.

What happened? Prowling around, little became clear, if only for the letter sat in front of her. Clean and uncrumpled amidst the city ruins. A diamond in the rough. She takes up the parchment as to carefully unravel it.

581 Bleecker Street, NYC

Miss Hot Babe on the Top Floor

Hey. You might not know me, but I kinda know you. Well, actually, I don't really know you either, but I pretty much saved your life. So, you're welcome, I guess! And if you get saved again it's totally me.

By the way, you probably shouldn't tell anybody I sent you this 'cause then I'll be in big trouble. Peace out.

P.S. You're hot.

\- Michelangelo

\---

“You used your full name!? Mikey!”

“Hey--chill out, man! I'm sure there's some Italians around, right? Like, uh, how many dudes do you suppose are in New York that are called Michelangelo? Besides me?”

“None, actually.”

Really, the worst that could happen is she'll think it's some sick practical joke signed using the alias of a dead man. At least, he'd hope that to be the case. Leo and Mikey work together to carefully ease Raph onto his bed, which would prove in of itself a challenge, in that their brother groans in pain at the slightest touch. Practically passing out by the time his head reaches the pillow.

Mikey did not doubt that this was the worst state he'd ever seen Raph. Even worse than that time he fell off a skateboard, and down a drainage pipe when they were tots. Open wounds, broken bones ...Don certainly had his work cut out for him. Splinter briefly awoke from his meditation to assist them in supplying bandages, and food and water. But of the brothers, Mikey took it the hardest. Once they'd done all they could for him, Mike dragged himself to the back of the room with a pained expression.

Don pitiably bites his lip, and then approaching Mikey with the grappling hook in hand. He'd put so much effort into it, but ultimately, he understood his capabilities at ranged tools were unremarkable in comparison. Thinking back to how they'd failed him before, and Mikey's prowess at thrown sai. For his father had told him, as one of many lessons, that the hardest part of creating something was letting it go. And he knew that better than any of them.

“Hey, Mikey, you wanted a gun, right? For a weapon?”

“No way!”

His face lit up, beaming in adoration and with a partially muted toothy grin that said Donnie, I could kiss you!

“It's no freeze ray from Gamma Raiders Volume X, but, thanks.”

Leo crouches by Raph's side, watching him peacefully turn in his sleep. However he would attempt to still his brother, for otherwise he'd probably wake up feeling even worse. And start moaning about it as a result. Leo had never been a particularly talkative individual, at least not to the extent of his brothers, but he still wanted to speak to Raph. Even if it was just to say, you'll be okay.

“This goes for me as well, and ...sometimes, I can't tell whether you're being really cool, or really stupid.”

Leonardo smiles and pats his head.

“Or both.”


	3. Not So Above it All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This story is incomplete.

Scrawny, claw like finger tips grasp at the mantle. Candlelight trembling in his eyes as he fumbles through a drawer and precariously draws it out, as though it were from an ancient deck of cards, a photo of a man. Faded, monochrome. Almost yellowing in its years.

A tiny line of Asian characters dot the opposing side, and what faint luminosity remained in the picture's texture spitefully reflected his detached gaze right back at him. So he casts it away, having already looked upon it dozens of times in obsessive and almost habitual examination. The Master could not help but feel regret in sheltering himself away. He was not a hermit--he knew this.

His family needed him. His sons needed him. One even rested in the adjacent room at this very moment, covered head-to-toe in wounds, and yet, here he was--dwelling on the past. Endlessly challenging a thought that churned deep inside his mind. This man, he was indebted to. The message had been explicitly written for him all those years ago by old Hatsumi himself--that when his friend's time was almost done, that Splinter should call upon and recruit their grandson into a samurai clan.

"But, you will be in the East, and for I, the West. How can I possibly know when it is time?"

"You will know."

He was right. Though not terribly superstitious, Splinter did possess a certain degree of understanding in spirituality. That which his teachings required. Needless to say, it still came as much of a shock to him when in dreams he saw his friend strewn across a bed. Crippled, fragile and meek, and with skin desiccated to such an extent that it appeared in the mirroring lake of heavily wrinkled sheets beneath him. Tender pity rose Splinter's brow in recollection of a companion nearing his end.

It was time.

\---

Gathered at a lone tree in the countryside, which provided them one of the very few sources of shelter in this green expanse, the turtles and their Master indignantly clamber up. Disguising themselves among its brambles and foliage. Less than a metre away, the wall squarely encircling a vast oriental estate home to those who their Master sought to meet.

It was not often they ventured out with Splinter--rather, it was a wonder he had allowed them out at all. The three understood it was urgent, however, for otherwise their father would've surely purveyed some sort of explanation by now. They watched the Master solely focus upon the task ahead, unwilling to deter himself for anything but to lead his sons--who idly chatted amongst themselves.

"I can't believe we left Raph on his own ...is he really going to be okay like that?" Donnie confided in a stilted whisper.

"Hey, chill! Raph's a big boy. He eats his veggies."

"Yeah. No he doesn't, Mike."

Leonardo's comment brought Mikey to a sudden epiphany, in that Raph had perhaps been encouraging him to eat his leafy greens all this time--the majority of which he bore an intense hatred towards--for nothing ...no, not for nothing, just to mess with him!

"That little creep! When I get back, I'll wring his neck--"

"Mikey! Donnie! Focus!"

Mikey continues to grind his teeth. The four come to an abrupt halt at the protrusion of their Master's hand. He delved inside his robes, took out a kunai knife and lunged at the brick wall before the tree. Expertly grappling hold of the hilt, it's end marking a crevice between the slate. He began to scale the surface, and his turtles followed. Stopping again, the grass on the opposing side sheltered by a lone guardsman. However he was far out of reach, and they began to climb round until Mikey interjected.

"Pardon me, Master, but I think I just had an awesome idea ...!"

"You wanna first run that idea by me, Mikey?"

"Hey, let the guy think for himself--not that he very often does."

Splinter gave a nod of his head, to which Mike grabbed two sizeable, leafy branches and hung them in front of the guard's nose. Donnie covered his eyes, and Leo bit his lip.

There was a turbulence this high up on the suburban hillside, so the guard merely swept the twigs away. But they were brought back again, and in this lookout's progressing anger he took hold of one. Finally in reach, this was all Mikey needed to haul the other end, and swing the guy into their crowd of mutants. Lights out. The remainder of the home's protectorate stood unaware, for it was dark out. This was all they needed to secure passage, dropping down one after another into the soft bushel.

Leo pointed to their father, who stood waiting for them at a second story window. Precariously wedged on the roof's edge. Don ran to switch off the security outlet, and they followed up to the floor above. Rather than waiting on them, Splinter had already buckled inside, leaving the turtles to their own devices. Don misplaces his footing along the brickwork and crashes into a pond.

"Klutz!"

"Owh, shut your face, Mike, and help me up!"

Pushing himself against the window frame, Mikey prepared to leap down, before Leo laid a hand on his shoulder. Guards were coming. Donnie quit his scrambling, tucked in his limbs and let his big shell float on the surface. As two night watchmen approached, they eyed the newfound pond dweller and scratched their heads.

"I don't remember the boss keeping a pet turtle ..."

As they wandered off, Donnie sigh in relief before heading up. The glass was open, and they dragged him inside, dripping wet. Spilling dark embellishments along the wooden interior.

"Thanks--'course it had to be me, with my damn tracking devices and everything." Don groaned, revealing his assortment of gadgetry that emitted broken whirrs dimming electrical currents.

"Before we go any further, I want to set the record straight with you, Mikey. I wasn't kidding back there. Before you, or Don, do anything on your own, you should consider telling me first."

"What's this, a dictatorship? Splinter was cool with it, dude."

"Second that. You get an A+ for royally ticking us off this week, Leo ..."

"Well, I'm sorry if it annoys you. I'm only trying to look out for you guys--teamwork is all about communication."

"It's also about not scrounging around and blabbing orders with a stick so far up your shell."

"--Smooth, Donatello," "We should go."

Down the hall, a silken carpet underfoot, and with tensions aglow the three tread out to a balcony overseeing a boxed garden. Master Splinter waved to them, snout poking out from a second veranda to their left. Below them, a boy addressing his father. Donatello wandered round the roof tiles, making his way to a point where the voices were at a faint whisper. But not before pointing a finger and mumbling in his brother’s ear, if he had one.

"Mikey, look--assassins," And he motioned to three figures cloaked in black on the other side, wielding rifles. Leo shot up, despite his brothers purposely avoiding confronting him, and readied a single shuriken from his belt.

"I don't want to be taught in your ways, Father. Running, stealing--it's not right. There has to be something else for me,"

a man from inside the house angrily punches his fist at the doorway, one of the father's men. the son is intimidated

"W-what I'm trying to say is, I really don't know if I’m up to this.”

"There are a lot of things you could amount to, son, but first and foremost I want you to follow in my footsteps. You're either an enemy to this family, or an ally, and I want you to be with me on this one ...make your decision,"

another man peers from inside the home, goes to the father and talks to him. don can't hear him. Leo gawks as one of the assassins takes aim at the father and son. Grip remaining clamped round the shuriken, Leo tossed it out and knocked the gun from the goon’s hands. However, the slight downward angle meant it skidded off the roof and gently thudded in the grass. Threat looming in the air, the two below had the sense to huddle inside.

_ "Defend their lives at all costs," _ their father had said. It wasn't much, but it was enough to give the turtles some idea to their current situation. The assassins were gone, and perhaps nearby. Splinter took chase after the two, leaving the brothers to fight it out on the roof. Gunfire at Mikey narrowly blew along his nunchucks, while Don disarms another.

"Finish up here, we have to cover Master Splinter!" Mikey and Don glared at him, however they recognised the urgency in his voice and heeded it. Leo seemed taken aback, distractedly shaking his head. Soon after, they were inside again. The institute would surely be on high alert, so they kept their heads low--but not necessarily their voices, as the younger two stuck out their tongues and danced their hands.

"Nyeh, nyeh, I'm Leo and I love telling everybody what to do, nyehhh."

"Only my opinion matters because I'm Leo--even though I'm not as smart as Don.”

"You damn clowns are going to get us all killed!"

As if on cue, assassins appeared, drawn to their collective noise. In his impatient mood Leo hacked away at them, hence clumsily allowing himself to be cut on knife’s edge. He gripped his scraped tendon and led his brothers through the home, who sped up in response, mercilessly eager to challenge Leo's stance in front. A close gunshot rung in their ears, and round a corner was Splinter. Unharmed, but keeling by the boy's father. Red seeping through the man’s vest. The turtles looked to each other, all competition and defiance briefly drained from them.

"Oh, no ..." Mikey whimpered, then helping his brothers drag the limp, writhing step-father to the nearest room. Their Master felt the walls, nearing to a closet riddled with dark, plain robes. Handing one to each of his sons, tightly adorning them in hoods. It made for an eloquent disguise.

“Leonardo, stay with me--Michelangelo and Donatello, find the boy and bring him here. I regret not being presently able to explain further …”

Bowing their heads, together they waded between Leonardo and the door, returning to the corridor where Donatello pointed out spots of blood. Leading outside, the brothers stopped in the doorway, ahead a flower garden. The son struggling in the grip of assassins clasping his hands and feet.

“L-let’s talk this over! I swear, I don’t even wanna be their heir. I don’t wanna be! Please! I’m sure we can work something out …”

Giving him pause, and hence a brief glimmer of hope, they soon stuffed a patch of black linen down the boy’s throat and brought him closer to a hedge. Fading from Donatello and Michelangelo’s line of sight, the latter reaching for his chucks. Ready to take up arms, but Donnie stopped him.

“Wait a sec, Mike. I’ve got an idea.”

“Oh, you do, huh? As brilliant as mine? Hold on--first, you gotta run that idea by me, so I can criticise you later for not being a mindless suck-up.”

“Ha ha, good one, good one. Now, c’mon, listen up …”

Teetering up a stairwell, Mikey collected himself near a second story window, of which rested a sizeable distance from the garden. Parting his legs, Mikey then directed his grappling hook far enough that it made a distant clink on the edge of the ten foot wall surrounding the estate. Pushing himself next to the window frame on the building’s exterior, he swung forward like a pendulum. Dangling his feet over the fast approaching head of one assassin, that made a vain attempt to grab him. In response, Mikey cradled his knees against his chest, narrowly avoiding their reach. Then, passing them, Mikey lowered again and kicked behind. Knocking into the hitman’s head and causing him to fall back and be lightly impaled on a thorny rose bush.

**To be continued, maybe?**


End file.
